


Day After Day After Month

by Perfica



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1000-3000 words, Drama, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-08-28
Updated: 2005-08-28
Packaged: 2017-10-14 22:26:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/154141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Perfica/pseuds/Perfica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry struggles to overcome apathy as he waits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day After Day After Month

**Author's Note:**

> Set in an alternative reality where Harry is over eighteen and attending Hogwarts.

I was at the Order meeting when Snape told us he was returning to Voldemort.

He said it so matter of factly, and Dumbledore just sighed in a resigned sort of way, like he knew it would come to this.

How many meetings have I sat through like this, where ideas, more ludicrous then the previous, are voiced and mulled over, then finally given the Headmaster’s approval, with no more apparent consideration then if we had been stuck in a staff meeting in the past discussing the need to buy newer Bludgers, or whether the fifth-years should be allowed to go to Hogsmead this weekend?

It had become too difficult. With me locked in here (day after day after month after month after…can’t I get some air please?) and the adults (what, I almost broke a rib I laughed so hard) out there fighting the good fight, rallying the troops, seizing opportunities…

Wait.

I’m getting cynical.

So the good old Dark Lord hasn’t had a crack at me for a long time. And he and his chuckling henchmen are starting to take it out on the civilians. You know who those are, right? The wizards and witches that send their kids to bed every night with fairytales and jokes, and their grins are stretched so tight across their faces they look like hysterical corpses. No darling, there’s no such thing as the Boogey-Man. No one’s out to hurt you.

They’re right, sort of. The Boogey-Man’s out to get me. Even after all this time. Stubborn bastard won’t quit until one of us wins.

So I’m locked in here, and they’re out there. I haven’t seen Ron in weeks, and when I do it’s in a hurried ‘How you going mate? Which I could stay longer but I’ve got to…’

Whatever. You’re out there fighting the good fight. I now realise what Sirius went through and I wish he were here so I could apologise.

It’s not like Snape had a choice really – all of us could see that. With Hogwarts locked down and tightened up and warded to the shithouse, no one was going in or out unless they needed to. Dumbledore kept a closer eye on his soldiers than a miser would his last piece of mouldy bread. The Bastard Lord decided that, if Snape wasn’t getting him the good stuff here, there was no need for his continued presence. After all, what’s the use of having a Potions Master at your beck and call if you can’t reap the rewards? So much for a cover story.

Potions Master. He was a fucking Master. Still is.

Dumbledore never said if he expected to see him again. He just sort of sighed again and took one of Snape’s hand in both of his and told him to ‘Take care of yourself Severus. Please. For your own sake.’

I would have snorted if Snape hadn’t. What’s a man to say to that?

When he packed his stuff and moved out, I took his dungeons over with avarical delight. No more Gryfinddor quarters for me. Oh no, now I get the good stuff. The quiet. The dark. The dusty gloom. Feels appropriate to a man when his soul is being drained out of his body one drip a day. I like it down here.

I want to laugh every time I see Hermione now, but I don’t think she’d get it. The Queen of S.P.E.W., more reliant on a house elf than a quadriplegic squib. I don’t even know where her quarters are, but I’m guessing they’re in throwing distance of the library. She’s there every waking hour, eyes straining, hair resembling cold vermicelli on a good day, pouring over text and text and text.

She still thinks she may find something good, something new, something that can save us all. Good on her, I say. At least one of us feels they’re doing something worthwhile for the cause. And Winky, who once was never seen without a bottle in one hand and sloppy tears running down her face, is her constant shadow. I don’t know if it was Dumbledore’s idea (and Merlin knows he’s had some) to give Hermione a slave or a servant, but it’s gotten to the point where Winky is the only thing keeping Hermione going.

‘Mistress,’ I hear her whisper as she gently tugs on Hermione’s sleeve, ‘You’ve gots to eats now.” And when she’s ignored (because Hermione’s passed out with fatigue or hunger or just plain information overload), Winky sees to it that she’s bathed and fed and sleeps. And every day she’s back again, and she’s back again with her – her constant companion, her lifeline, her driving force.

I think I’m jealous.

And when Snape floos out of the fireplace, I’m not even surprised anymore. He was as shocked to see me in his old haunt as I was to see him still alive.

No, that’s a lie.

I always thought that out of everyone, he’d make it. He has the gift of utter gall. I’d say he had the luck of the Irish if it wasn’t so bleeding obvious there’s Roman blood in him. He calls me the lucky one, the boy genius. I call him the cat that lands on his fucking feet every single time.

Sometimes he’d go to Dumbledore’s office, and he’d return after a few hours smelling a little of alcohol and looking a little worse for wear. A little bit softer, or maybe he was just hazy ‘cause I’d been drinking too. I don’t know what he says in there. It’s not my place to ask and quite frankly, would it make a difference to my life?

He doesn’t manage to get away that often but when he does, I make sure things are nice for him. After the first few times I got the hint, and left the rooms. Let him stew in his past. Let him stare at the fire.

That’s a bit harsh.

I don’t know what he’s been doing but I know he doesn’t like it. I’m not even sure how he manages to get away but he does. Sometimes once a month, sometimes three times in one week.

After the first few ridiculous times, when I’d traipse around the empty hallways to give him some peace I thought ‘Fuck it. They’re my rooms now’. So I went back and we got hammered. We hardly said a word but I think he appreciated it.

Then there were other times when he’d come through smelling like cheap Muggle perfume and his hair was slick and his robes were shiny and new and I thought ‘That’s not right!’

Snape isn’t supposed to look all dolled up like that. It seems stupid to me even now to worry about the fact that Voldemort was changing Snape’s outward appearance, and not even giving a thought to what was rotting on the inside. I don’t want him to be anyone’s lackey. But that’s just me. Snape says I’m immature. I laughed and told him I don’t want him to be anybody’s bitch but mine. He scowled at that.

So one thing led to another and now, instead of just giving him drinks I let him soak in my bath. The bastard can sit there for hours. I don’t know what he does in there because he never makes a sound. I’ve even taken to leaving one of my old bathrobes in there for him. Not a Dudley hand-me-down, you’ll be pleased to know. Something that I bought with my own damn money and wore down and made soft and clingy. On second thoughts, I really liked that robe. Should have just given him the new one.

We don’t eat together, looks like he’s being taken care of wherever it is he goes. He still smirks and stares and gives me the shits. It’s nice to know some things never change.

I’m lying in bed now, awake and just looking. He’s asleep. I’d say he looked at peace but that sounds too much like he’s dead. I wonder if this was ever just about body warmth.

I never kicked him out and sometimes he looked like he didn’t want to leave. And finally I said to him, ‘Fuck it. If you can stay, stay. If you want to.’

So he did.

And he does.

And it doesn’t happen too often.

And we still don’t really talk that much. I guess all those looks that passed between us meant something after all.

We never really had that much to say to each other anyway.


	2. Realisation

Once again I am overwhelmed by the sheer stupidity of my situation.

I, Severus Snape, am in bed with Harry James Potter.

Boy Wonder. Last remaining hope of the Wizarding World. Son of the loathsome (and thankfully deceased) James Potter. Weapon-in-waiting of Albus Dumbledore. Ghost of the man he once was.

Cream.

Svelte.

Delicious.

Mine.

If there wasn’t a chance of waking him up, I’d laugh out loud.

 

I know he lies there sometimes and stares at me as I sleep. The idiot has obviously forgotten that I have been a spy for longer than he has been on this earth, and that no spy worth his salt is unaware of his surroundings.

But I lie.

I wonder – is it still a lie if you say it only to yourself? And, if you don’t believe your own lies, does that make you a realist or a fool? I need to think further on that.

 

The fact is, in these chambers, in this bed, under these sheets with him, this is the only place I can sleep without worry. As time goes on, I find that fact more and more disturbing.

I want him to watch me sleep. I want to watch him sleep, much as I am doing now.

I lay in this room, the only light being the small flames that still move in the fireplace. Originally, I could only touch him in the dark. While I desired to see every part of his form, I was afraid of what he would see in mine. And not because I am vain. My body holds no shameful secrets for me, and if I believed him to be squeamish, or one who worships on the altar of Beauty, this never would have started.

I did not want him to see my eyes. I have lived for so long guarding my secrets, and for him to know what this means to me, what he means to me…

The thought is unconscionable. Or was. I can hide nothing from him now, and that thought fills me with equal parts of exaltation and fear. I can hold up no barrier to him now. I am without shields and defenceless.

He has not taken advantage of me.

When I lay with him, the only sounds and smells I sense are the ones normally associated with what you would expect when you have a grown man laying next to you. As disgusting as that sounds, I find it comforting.

He is here, and I am here, and we are here together and alone. Time expands to the outer reaches of the universe, and I listen to him. The universe contracts into a single point of existence, and I taste his skin and my chest hurts.

 

He is here. His limbs entwine with mine, and he has no compulsion in hogging the blankets, or in placing his arm across my chest. Sometimes his fingers convulse in my hair, and it is more effort than it’s worth to untangle them, so I put up with leaving a few of my hairs trapped in his hands when I leave. Is this my way of leaving him a memento?

 

His breath is constant. His body is warm and slick and loose after love. For that is what it is – there’s no point in denying it now. What we have, what we share in this solitude…is love.

I have always been piercing in my observations and abrupt in my pronouncements so will not hesitate to admit this to myself.

I, Severus Snape, am in love with Harry Potter.

Of course the situation is intolerable, and no amount of Veritiserum or Crucio will wring those words from my tongue. I would rather die than admit it to him, or to any other. But the fact remains.

 

When I first returned to Hogwarts, it was in the hope that I may still be able to contribute some small piece of knowledge that would hasten the end of the Dark Lord’s reign.

As I said, I am a realist and, regardless of Albus’ plans, or Miss Granger’s research, or the Order’s best bumbling efforts, we are at a stalemate. We cannot go forward until Potter is ready, and Potter will never be ready until we allow him to break free.

Or break out. Much as I have longed to for the past 25 years.

So we remain at a standstill. I continue to commit unpardonable acts, and Harry continues to wilt and rot in this room.

Albus is reassuring, but his mouth babbles platitudes that I have heard, and taken in, and thrown out for so long, I feel there would be more gained from listening to Longbottom spout on the art of Potion-making.

I am beginning to fear for my sanity.

 

It was a comfort to me, to return to these quarters. For a brief moment in my disgusting duplicity, I could throw off the shackles of obligation, and bask in the memories of my time here. People often assume that I loathed my position. For me, it was my salvation. Safety. Solitude. Respect (even if it was enforced with detention and mockery). I was alone and I was free. And after what I had lived (if that’s what you could call it) up until then, it was Nirvana on Earth.

And the bastard Potter had to take even that from me. He has totally reconfigured my rooms. There is nothing that remains to show it was my quarters, my haven, my home, damned his hide. The bookshelves remain, but they are empty. My lounges have been transfigured from their smooth chocolate leather into plush, spongy royal blue. Instead of scotch, I am greeted with Firewhisky.

The only good thing he has done is to deepen the bath. I sit in luxury for hours on end, purposely not thinking, rubbing mounds of multicoloured bubbles into my skin.

Does that amuse you? Not as much as it amuses me. But I am a realist. And if I am to die suddenly and horribly, I will indulge myself when the opportunity arises.

And that’s all he was, at first. An opportunity, a moment or two to forget and sink into flesh. I don’t know if he had experienced the pleasures of men before me, and quite frankly (to misquote a common tall, dark and brooding Muggle character), I don’t give a damn.

 

He is flesh. He is life. He is power and heat and all that I crave. Perhaps he saw me as a way to relieve boredom? Perhaps he was drunk, and is drunk everytime I come?

No. That is being cruel.

He is as aware of me as I am aware of him. I watch him watch me. I follow his eyes as they watch me pace the room, and sneer at his selection of alcohol and furniture and clothing and anything else I can think of to forestall the inevitable.

For it is inevitable that I will go to him and cling to him and press myself hard against him. And he will let me. And not only does he let me, but he encourages me. Without words, we speak volumes to each other. The way he licks the skin of my neck. The way I clutch his arse and pull him into me. The angry way he bites me as he pounds into me. The way I hide my face in his neck when I pound into him.

I am doomed. I am in love.

We hardly speak anymore. I am quite sure he hasn’t become more intelligent, nor have I become less. We no longer have strength for barbs or veiled witticisms.

I wait, and I wait, and I hold myself off until it hurts too much and I have to go to him. And he waits, and he waits, even if he’s not there when I arrive.

I go to the cupboard and don the bathrobe that I have claimed as my own when I am there. It smells of him and I secretly rub my face in it and revel in his scent. And when I leave, I know that it carries my scent and is warm from my flesh.

I wonder if he puts it on straight after my departure, or does he hold off in a fruitless attempt to maintain his dignity? If it were me, if it were him leaving, I would sleep with it under my cheek. I would wrap it tight around my body. But then, I have always been a Romantic.

All I know is this – when I arrive, it smells like him. And when I leave, it smells like me. And when I return, it smells like him.

We are passing love-letters to each other through cloth.

 

He is awake. His fingers trail gently up my spine. His lips fall open in submission. His myopic eyes strain to see mine, to see what it is that I am hiding. And I hold nothing back from him. I let him see myself, my whole self, and he is not afraid by what I show. He knows, much as I know when I look into his eyes and watch the barriers between us fall.

 

He knows, and I know.

 

He is awake, and I will feel him and experience him and love him for as long as we have.

 

I don’t know when I’ll be able to return.


End file.
